Spartan Queen
by appleschan
Summary: Because in Sparta, death is a duty.


_Disclaimer: _I do not own Bleach. I make no profit.

_Theme: _Aesthetic Violence.

_Warning: _Death. ooc/au. Slight gore. Quick one-shot.

_Chapter Word Count:_ 778

_General Summary: _Because in Sparta, death is a duty.

**Spartan Queen**

…

**…o0o…o0o…o0o…**

Between the time Rukia lifted up Ichigo's head to the time she kissed him for the first and last time, she relieved his whole being.

It's quick. It's familiar. Rukia caught it and held on to it tightly.

The air was warm and heavy like hot sand blended with the wind and whipped her bare back relentlessly, leaving minute red gashes. The ground was metallic and red with littered cold, hacked human flesh. Bits of sharp metal edges struck her bare feet, leaving a temporary trail of small bloody footprints. Her small, red footprints disappeared almost immediately amongst the literal mat of blood; its only reminder was a barely audible _plock_, and its disappearance only defined the extent of lives reaped. The stench, the repulsive stench of human decay was normal, leaving her a horrid impression of reality. This was their world.

A helot –a slave- like her plowed through the aftermath of yet another clash to search the fallen warriors deserving of respectful burials. It was never her job. But she did it.

The visuals of war left them, and the warlords left with it.

Ichigo was of warrior class. His upbringing was of Spartiate elite. His father was captain to the King. His mother was a respected woman who died of a sickness. And he, he was thought to be splendid. Rukia was of slave class. Her upbringing was of helot rank. Her father –she never knew her father. Her mother –she never knew her mother. And she, she was thought to be a nuisance.

Women were expected to be strong. They were expected to be strong –even ones like her. She was strong, far too strong and witty for a woman with a short stature. She always spoke her mind, undeterred by ardent and sometimes forceful display of masculinity. And perhaps, despite her passionate display of defiance unheard from a helot, many men found her appealing enough. Her walk was that of a graceful woman. Her rare smile was that of a nymph. She was able to entice men without knowing.

Ichigo, the most disciplined and praised warrior in her time, did not take interest in her. Only when his family was awarded another land that he met her finally, because his family purchased her and let her work in the expansion of their home.

Rukia –upon hearing- thought it was for another completely different reason, she knew that they had a son older than her.

At the first night of their meeting, Rukia disrobed and angrily dared the male to come and touch her. _He did_. He did by tying her robe back to her. Then he quietly led her to her room. Rukia didn't understand.

She would ask Ichigo, why he acted so differently from other men but he was rarely home. While he was away, she kept hearing things about him, and to her dismay; she heard not a single negative comment. Then he would return from months of training, his body hardened, so scarred, and fresh with wounds. That night, Rukia bathed him.

Rukia learned that he participated in a deadly skirmish for the first time. Rukia learned that every man who went to the military and came back as hardened war heroes had their secrets.

He was just like a boy, the seven year old boy who was taken from home early and was never given a childhood. When his sentiments started to pour, Rukia listened and kept it a secret.

Three years went and she became closer to him, he was only four years short of training. She was his best friend and she thought it was mutual. They were close, spending time together endlessly when they have the chance. She never failed to accompany him whenever he visit his mother's grave. They usually meet at night, outside the communal post. She was the only woman to hit him, playful or not, he allowed her. Yet most of their times together were spent in silence, sitting opposite each other in complete still.

He once said in jest that he would marry her, but he wouldn't be able to be with her until he reached a certain age as laws dictate. Rukia waved if off and never let the foolish jest bother her, but there was a bubble of something unnamed in her whenever the memory would visit her, because his eyes promised his words.

Another war came and he didn't say goodbye to her. He believed in his words, he was confident when he donned his deep red cloak, took his xiphos and marched into battle –his last.

She, too, was confident in his strength and resolve. Yet Sparta burned behind her.

The dusk after war was lovely. Lovely like Keres, goddesses of violent death collecting their souls. And Rukia watched in vain, in anger and in anguish. The path to death was permanent.

Rukia picked up Ichigo's severed head carefully, her warm hands pressed against his cold cheeks. His eyes were open, hollow and empty.

Two nights ago, these hollow spaces burned amber and gold, alive and smirking. Women like her were strong, but they weren't expected to mourn openly.

Then she kissed his blood-dried, dead lips for the first and last time.

**…o0O0o…**

_The End_

**Author's Note**

What do you expect? It was written in less than 30 minutes of bored waiting for boarding time.

I let him die because if not, my brain won't shut up.

Thanks for reading.

_-appleschan_


End file.
